


Fic request compilation round 1

by mtjester



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Multi, Tags listed in author notes according to fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3470321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtjester/pseuds/mtjester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A compilation of fic requests given to me on tumblr, featuring different ships and AUs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gamzee&Rose, Gamzee<>Karkat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Novaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novaz/gifts), [beavisandbuttheadyaoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beavisandbuttheadyaoi/gifts), [lamonstruo](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lamonstruo), [prince-of-bread](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=prince-of-bread), [LeafyWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafyWrites/gifts), [catf8sh](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=catf8sh), [msvanillamilkshake](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=msvanillamilkshake).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: either gamkar or gamzee and rose, wherein it is difficult for Gamzee to speak in sentences or really say anything besides honk. (And even when he can string some words together people find it hard to understand Gamzee's clowntalk so he might as well just be saying honk) if gamkar, karkat isnt some great clown interpreter, this is something that impairs gamzee's ability to communicate like everyone else

From the depths of the dark, Rose could hear the slow, inconsistent melody of Gamzee’s honks, quiet and forlorn but with the emotional tenor of a banshee’s wailing. Kanaya told her to ignore him, and Dave seemed too put off of the subject to discuss it with her. This wasn’t the first time the exiled clown sought attention from the safe catacombs of the meteor, but usually Karkat was awake to seek him out and calm him. Karkat was too preoccupied with sleep somewhere in his own living quarters to answer the call now. The echoing noise seemed to go on forever, reverberated in Rose’s mind.

She stood. ”I’ll be back,” she said out loud before turning towards the exit.

"You aren’t going to meddle with Gamzee, are you?" Kanaya asked.

"Don’t mess with the murderclown," Dave said, only giving her half of his attention. "He’ll draw you in and drown you like some fucked up harlequin kelpie."

"I doubt it," Rose responded. "Don’t worry, I’m only going for a walk."

The half-truth didn’t weigh on her consciousness. She weaved through the dim hallways, not the least bit nervous about finding the source of the sound. Up stairs, down stairs, until she stood below a grated vent. ”Gamzee?” she called up. The honking paused for a moment, and a single honk, more purposeful than the others, answered her. Standing on her toes, she reached up and dislodged the grate. ”Gamzee, come down here.”

She waited patiently for signs of movement. Gamzee was hesitant, but she eventually heard the rustling of fabric and the metallic noise of weight shifting in the vent. Gamzee’s mane of hair proceeded his face out of the vent. His eyes shifted from her face to the dark ends of the hallway. ”I’m alone,” Rose assured him. He looked back at her, his lidded eyes examining her face, and he released a low honk. She sighed. ”Come down here. Karkat is asleep.”

A melancholy shadow passed across his face and he deflated, his face resting against the edge of the vent. Rose could hear him mumble some incoherent words, slang and jargon strung together with a chaotic syntax, and she crossed her arms. ”Do you always wait for him to come to you?” she asked. Gamzee’s eyes flashed to hers and away. ”Is it because of Kanaya? She’s probably lost interest in you by now.”

He pushed himself up and disappeared into the vent again. A flat honk echoed from inside. Rose sighed again and pulled herself up to crawl over the edge, struggling into the narrow vent. When she looked up, Gamzee was watching her with wide, startled eyes. He murmured some meaningless phrases as she slid next to him and got more comfortable. ”You can’t always wait for Karkat to come to you when you need him,” she said after a few quiet seconds. He answered with another incomprehensible string of words. She glanced at him. ”It’s my understanding that you’ve always been somewhat incoherent with your language, but this is a new development, isn’t it?”

He glanced away. She took in his anxious posture, his shoulders slumped and legs folded against his chest. Her mind ghosted over books’ worth of psychology and clicked connections into place. ”Gamzee,” she said, reaching out and placing a hand gently on his arm. ”Would you like me to take you to Karkat?”

His eyes snapped to hers, and he honked.

She nodded. ”Come with me,” she said, and she crawled out of the vent. She waited below while he dangled his lanky legs from the hole and dropped to the ground, standing taller than his huddled posture would have suggested he’d be. Trusting he would follow, Rose turned down the hallway and began the trek to Karkat’s quarters, which were several stories below them. Gamzee’s feet padded quietly on the floor behind her, and he let out occasional strings of soft honks. By the time they arrived at Karkat’s respiteblock, he was perfectly silent.

Rose opened the door. Karkat was sleeping soundly on a heap of books, drooling onto an open page. Rose stood aside and let Gamzee move past her. He scurried over with surprising speed but slowed as he squatted next to Karkat’s sleeping form, releasing almost inaudible honks. Karkat shifted and cracked open an eye. Rose turned away as Gamzee flopped over next to him, burying his face underneath Karkat’s arm, which Karkat lifted enough for him to get comfortable.


	2. Gamzee<3Tavros, "Meet ugly moment"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You broke into my apartment drunk thinking it was your friend’s house and I should call the cops but my cat kinda likes you so we’re good”

You come out of the bathroom with your towel wrapped around your waist and make your way down the hall to your room, but you pause at the door. The light is on in the kitchen. Leaving lights on is not something you typically do, since you don’t have the money to run up your electric bill. Grimacing at your carelessness, you walk towards the illuminated doorway.

You round the corner and your heart seizes in your chest. A lanky clown with bloodshot eyes is struggling to open a can of tuna at the counter, his face contorted with concentration. You stand in the doorway, struck dumb with terror. You thought clowns only broke into people’s houses in horror movies. And why is he stealing your tuna? Did he get bored waiting for you to get out of the shower so he could murder you? But you didn’t lock the door or anything, so he could’ve just barged in. Maybe he’s just hungry and didn’t want to slaughter you on an empty stomach?

You’re startled out of your shock by a loud yowl at the clown’s feet. Your cat, or rather, your friend’s cat who you adopted when she moved into a pets-prohibited apartment, is dancing figure-eights around the clown’s shoeless feet. ”Just hold on one more motherfuckin’ second, little motherfucker,” the clown says in a surprisingly pleasant tone of voice. ”Gotta be gettin’ this—whoops.” His hands slip and a splash of juice falls from the can onto the floor. The cat pounces on it and begins to lap it up. The clown laughs.

You’re confused. The clown is opening the tuna for the cat? Come to think of it, he’s not particular menacing with his face lit up in a goofy smile. You begin to weigh the pros and cons of saying something, but a small “Uh…” escapes your mouth before the mental debate even starts. The clown looks up and the two of you lock eyes.

You freeze, and he stares at you. For a second, he seems as confused as you are. He squints, examining your face. ”Ain’t seen no motherfucker like you around here,” he says. After a pause, his face breaks into the goofy grin again. ”Karkat must’ve up and made himself a new motherfuckin’ friend! Aw, I’m happy for the motherfucker.”

"Uh…" you say, because you honestly don’t know what else to say. "Um…I don’t think I know anyone named Karkat. Why are you in my kitchen?"

His face falls. He looks around the kitchen, squinting as he takes in his environment. ”Huh,” he finally says. ”I thought something seemed a little motherfuckin’ off about this crib.”

You’re dumbfounded. Did he not notice he was in a complete stranger’s house? The glossiness in his eyes suddenly makes a little more sense to you. Before you can say anything, your cat looks up at the clown and yowls again. ”Oh, right!” he says, and he resumes his struggle with the can. After a second of hesitation, you walk over to him and take it. He looks at you with surprise and lets you have it without a fuss. You finally decide that, despite the weird clown part, he’s harmless, and you relax into a smile.

"Uh, I’m not sure where you thought you were or where you actually want to be, if this isn’t the place you meant to go to, but my cat likes you and that probably means you’re an okay person. So, I think it would be alright for you to hang out here until you’re, uh, less disoriented, or until someone comes to pick you up, if you want to contact your friend," you say. A weird sequence of emotions passes across his face, which is so expressive it makes your smile widen. It might be your imagination, but his face seems to turn a light shade of pink beneath his face paint.

"Would a motherfucker mind if I crashed here tonight?" he blurted out. His eyes flash back and forth between yours as you recover from your surprise. You feel as though you should be skeptical of a request like that, but he’s so earnest you can’t bring yourself to mind. Besides, if he wanted to kill you, he probably would’ve done it while you were in the shower.

"Okay," you say, and his face lights up with that magnificent grin.


	3. Latula<>Dave, diverting attention from dangerous stunts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Latula does super rad (and dangerous) skater tricks and Dave films. Dave starts to realize that Latula will do any trick or stunt no matter how dangerous because she feels a need to prove herself and he begins to try to divert her attention by giving her less dangerous things to do instead (like challenging her to video games)

You nearly jump out of your chair when Latula comes up behind you and lifts the headphones off of your ears. ”Hey D-Stride, wanna go shoot some sick moves?” she yells with enough enthusiasm to rattle your brain in your skull. You try to hide your grimace. After what happened last time…

"What d’you got in mind?" you ask, trying to appear casual. She grins as though she was waiting for you to ask and pulls a sheet of paper out of the back pocket of her jeans. She slaps it down in front of you and begins pointing.

"You know how there’s that mad wide gap between the parking garage and the coffee house next door?" she says. "I was thinking, if we put a board down and I get enough of a start on it, I could totally make it. Think how sweet that’d be on camera!"

She holds up a hand for a high five, which you return because you can’t leave her hanging, but damn does that sound like a terrible idea to you. ”Hey, ‘Tula, can we just take a step back and examine this idea with a little more, I dunno, physics in mind?”

"No can do, Lil’ Bro D!" she says. "This other guy, he way trumped our last vid with a crazy backflip off some historical landmark. We gotta up our game to the MAX!"

"Okay, but why."

"What d’you mean, WHY? Cuz we gotta be the best is why!" Latula strikes a pose, and you can already tell where this is going. "A radgurl like me can’t admit defeat to some poser n00b who thinks he’s got game! I got my rep to think about! And you, you’ve gotta get the best shot, right? How are we supposed to be the dream team if other teams are out there cramping our style?"

You keep your poker face up, but your mind is working fast. There’s no arguing with Latula when she’s like this. You need to divert. But how…? ”Speaking of dream team,” you say as casually as you can muster, “did you know that our scores moved down a couple of spots on the leaderboard for Rocket League?”

"What? No!" she says, and you breathe a sigh of relief. If there’s anything Latula cares about more than dangerous stunts, it’s her gamergirl reputation. A much safer, less likely to end in paralysis reputation. You don’t tell her that the reason you moved down is because you’ve enlisted her boyfriend Mituna and your friend Roxy to out do the both of you. As long as they keep quiet and continue to put in the long hours to stay ahead of you, you’ll be safe. Probably.


	4. Gamzee<3Tavros, Insurrectionbent-canon crossover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: what if the tavros that was in vriska's ship went to a dream bubble and found the gamzee from insurrectionbent?
> 
> (This fic is set after [Insurrection for Desperate Dreamers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/629667/chapters/1138507), meeting with the canon period after Tavros leaves Vriska’s crew in the dreambubbles)

Tavros flew through the shattering void from one dreambubble to another, trying to discern the best path away from the rampaging demon breaking reality around him. He was beginning to regret his decision to abandon Vriska. He meant every word he had said and never felt as liberated as the moment he had floated away with his middle fingers up, but at least Vriska had had a plan. He was at a complete loss. Now, he was nothing more than a lost boy in a silly pirate costume, drifting aimlessly through the void of paradox space, and he was starting to think he might actually end up dead. Or deader.

He felt the pull of surface tension as he passed from one dreambubble into another, and the scene shifted to a moonlit Alternian beach at the edge of the ocean. Below him, he recognized a solitary hive, dark against the sand. His pump biscuit leapt into his throat. A figure stood on the beach, watching the waves drift into shore.

Tavros had never been in a dreambubble populated by Gamzee’s memories. In fact, he hadn’t talked to Gamzee since his death. The prospect of seeing an old friend after so long soothed his fears, and he descended.

"Gamzee, hey!" he said as he landed. He took a few steps forward and paused. The man looked over his shoulder, his eyes dim and somber. The paint of his face was the same as Gamzee’s, his scars were the same, and even his hair and clothes were the same, but he was older than Gamzee should’ve been and held a severity in his eyes that Tavros could not ever remember seeing in Gamzee’s. Surprise passed across his face as he locked eyes with Tavros.

"Motherfuck…" he breathed, turning towards him. "You’re…motherfuckin’ Tavros."

Tavros lifted his hand in a sheepish greeting. ”Uh, hi…yeah, I’m Tavros, but, uh, I think I might have made a mistake, in thinking that you were the same Gamzee that was in my timeline, since you’re apparently…not…”

Gamzee’s eyes flit over Tavros, taking in his youth and apparel. ”You ain’t among the living,” he commented after examining Tavros’s face.

"Oh, yeah, I’m not, but that’s old news now, so it doesn’t really bother me," Tavros responded. He took a step closer and looked at Gamzee more carefully. "Are you not dead?"

Gamzee’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ”Didn’t the motherfuckers up and tell you all about how the shit gets kicked? Clowns don’t die. We got some righteous motherfuckin’ work to be about getting accomplished.”

Tavros furrowed his brow in confusion. ”But, I thought that only the people from the alpha timeline got to live, and everyone else from the doomed timelines needed to die, according to paradox space laws,” he said. ”And since our Gamzee is in the alpha timeline, doesn’t that mean, by that logic, you would have to be a dead Gamzee?”

Gamzee’s eyes widened with surprise and grew narrow, darkening to a deep red. ”What all are you telling at me that your Gamzee is the motherfuckin’ main one of us?”

An unpleasant shiver crawled up Tavros spine and his mouth grew dry. The darkness in Gamzee’s eyes seemed to produce a shadow that surrounded him. ”Uh,” Tavros said, “that wasn’t meant as an insult to your uniqueness, or to your right to existence as a doomed Gamzee, so…sorry, if that’s how it sounded…”

"But what about you, brother?" Gamzee asked. To Tavros’s surprise, he reached out and gently brushed his fingers against his cheek. The anger in his eyes was still producing some unholy pressure, but Tavros noticed that it was sharp with distress rather than affront. "If your Gamzee is the main motherfucker, and the main motherfucker’s Tavros is you, and you’re motherfuckin’ dead…what about you, brother? What happened about you? Is that…the motherfucking end of it for you, in all of paradox space?"

Something stirred in Tavros’s chest, deepening his discomfort. ”I…don’t think I understand what you mean by that. Do you mean, how did I die?”

Gamzee’s fingers brushed back across Tavros’s temple and down so his palm could rest against his cheek. “Is there no more alive Tavros?” he asked, so quietly Tavros almost couldn’t hear him.

"Uh…" Tavros said, and the answer to the question shook up a feeling of sadness he hadn’t felt for a long time. "No, I guess there isn’t anymore."

"Mother fuck…" Gamzee said, stumbling backwards onto his ass. "But you were supposed to be about making it up for…you were supposed to be the alive one, to make it all motherfuckin’ worth it."

The way he dropped his head into his hands made Tavros’s sadness grow. After a moment of fumbling with his hands and figuring out how to react, he stepped around to Gamzee’s side and sat down in the sand next to him. ”Uh, I can see that you’re upset, maybe because of something that has to do with your Tavros, which I can appreciate, but, uh…I still exist, even if I’m not technically alive, see?”

He waited for Gamzee to look at him and flashed him a small smile. Gamzee examined his face for a second and, to Tavros’s surprise, threw his arm over his shoulder to drag him into a heavy hug. Tavros tensed, unsure of how to react, but Gamzee didn’t seem to notice. Their backs were to the ocean, and Gamzee’s dark hive stood before them. Tavros gradually began to relax as minutes passed with no sign of Gamzee releasing him.

Finally, Gamzee sighed. Tavros looked up to see him eyeing his hive with something similar to grief etched into his expression. ”You know, little motherfucker, when I got my wicked self all up off this planet to be about finding up my destiny, I would’ve never got my realization on about how much my wigglerhood memories of this shitty little hive would make my pump biscuit hurt. I’d give up every motherfuckin’ thing what can be got up to go back and do it all better.”

Tavros looked from Gamzee to the hive and around at the Alternian landscape, feeling the cool ocean breeze ruffle his hair. The smell was familiar, similar to the same salty scent that blew over the edge of the cliff outside his own hive. The light of the moons, the stars, the grass, the temperature of the air…it was all familiar, but he had been hopping through dreambubbles so long that he had forgotten to appreciate it. Now, thinking back on everything that had happened—the game, dying, traveling through the dreambubbles, participating in Vriska’s crusade, rebelling and winding up alone—a sharp stab of nostalgia twisted in his chest. ”I miss it, too,” he said. ”I miss the way things were before, too.” He finally relaxed against Gamzee, giving into the comfort of his cool skin.

Gamzee sighed. ”I never gave up on my promise, brother,” he said. ”Even if it’s all fake and meaningless and worthless, I’ll be putting together that shangri lol what I promised your other self I would do. At least we can up and create our own dreams in the afterlife.”

Tavros glanced up at him. ”That sounds nice,” he said. ”I hope, when your Tavros finds you again, he’ll appreciate it.”


	5. Tavros/Grand Highblood, post-rebellion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: In a setting where Tavros is the son of (or just happened to be hatched in the same time period as, if you don't like parental trolls) the Summoner, and is involved with the rebellion (mostly because of his relation to the Summoner). After it's failure, somebody needs to decide what to do with Tavros, and that somebody is GHB?
> 
> **Trigger warnings: Implied dubcon**

The spawn of the Summoner sits with his head lowered in a way his progenitor would never do, kneeling on the bloodied floor with his hands behind his back. A dull, meek creature, wingless, worthless, a disgrace to his lineage. You can guess why this coward survived the devastation of the rebellion and his begetter didn’t. You watch him flinch as another of the Summoner’s commanding officers is slaughtered by your brethren, spilling an ugly shade of green on the glistening ground. Your subjugglators whoop with approval and pour some elixir out for the lowbloods damned soul, and the air shimmers with special stardust. Spirits are high in your garish carnival tonight.

Hands grip the Summoner’s brood and thrust him before your throne. The jeers and laughter of your fellows fills your grand tent, abusing the lowblood with names so nasty they make you sneer. How he squirms before you. The last of the Nitrams, the least of the Nitrams—you can almost taste his fear.

"In your place at last, heathen bitch," you say, standing. You had wanted to have his ancestor, to watch the Summoner himself twist and writhe beneath your boot, but the shitblood had gotten himself killed on the battlefield like a proper warrior. This pathetic maggot will have to do. You walk towards him, dragging your club and dropping your feet with practiced force. When you stand before him, you can see his slight frame tremble. You lift his face with your club so he can look into your scarlet eyes and feel the force of your chucklevoodoos. "You have one motherfucking chance to make me laugh, impious grub. If your frail shitblood think pan has no wit for mirth, by the sacred decree of our mirthful messiahs, you are not worthy to keep it."

You can see the muscles in his neck move against your club as he swallows. He has no hope. A noise comes from his throat as he attempt to speak and fails. You adjust the grip on your club, readying yourself for the slaughter.

"When I was young…um," he says, and you pause. He licks his lips and begins again, "When I was younger, once, my—uh, the Summoner, he was in a fight with, um, the Marquise Spinneret Mindfang, if you know who that is, and, uh…she replaced his hair dye, the dye that makes his mohawk look cool, with something that made all his hair fall out, and also painted some really rude things onto his horns while he was sleeping, so…he had to run the rebellion from our hive, without leaving, for an perigee. Nobody knew but me and Mindfang, and he made it so you thought he was doing something important…he wasn’t, he was just bald…"

You’re stunned. The tent is, for a second, completely silent. You orient the new information in your mind—the noble Summoner, leader of the largest rebellion against the rule of Her Imperious Condescension to date, remaining in his hive for a perigee because of his shame over a shining, bald scalp. A chuckle bubbles up from your gut and tumbles from your mouth, and the dam breaks. You throw your head back and laugh, and your subjugglators join you, tickled by the mental image of the Summoner’s hairless head and his hitherto unknown vanity. You walk backwards into your throne and howl with mirth until you’ve been satiated. 

The noise in the tent subsides. You wipe a tear from your eye and look down at the uncertain lowblood. He has done as you bid and made you laugh. The man has mirth. ”Stand,” you command, and he struggles to his feet. You call him to you with a small movement of your finger. Every step he takes is fearful, and he watches you from beneath his brow, eyes wide. You grab his face when he’s within arms length. ”What shall we do with you, if death is not your fate?” you muse. You tilt his face one way and another, searching for an answer. His psychic ability means little to you, and you feel no pleasure giving him up to menial labor, given his significant lineage. His life as a lowblood will be short and joyless, no matter what fate you bequeath him. But by right of his symbolic importance, his fate should be likewise symbolic. What will you do with him?

He has a handsome face, as his ancestor did. Your lips curl into a smirk. ”I think I have an idea of what to do with you, motherfucker,” you say. Sometimes, you truly believe the cruelty of fate is its most humorous feature.


	6. Kurloz & Nepeta, meeting in dreambubbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I would think that if Nepeta and Kurloz met in the dreambubbles some time it would be a huge moment of confusion for both of them, Nepeta being somewhat scared because of what Gamzee did to her and Kurloz, well, because his matesprit was Nepeta's dancestor. So what if they had a little, like, opening up for each other about their recent negative events in life, and idk, finally ending up cuddling in a pale way and falling asleep cus they find out the other one is cool after all?

You don’t move, and neither does he. He looks so much like Gamzee. You can see that there are differences—he’s older, taller, with a sterner posture and stitches across his mouth—but the resemblance is enough to put you on edge. You can’t stand to think about him after what he did. To you, and to Equius…if you saw him again, you don’t know what you would do. You almost hid from this guy, before you noticed he wasn’t Gamzee. And he…he seems confused about you, even a little concerned by the expression on your face, like he’s having the same issue you are. Like he almost recognizes you the same way you almost recognize him. 

He lifts his hand and makes some gestures into the air. You understand what he’s doing. Alterian sign language, something you’ve seen before on a show. But you don’t understand. You wonder if he’s deaf or if it’s only the stitches on his lips that make him sign. ”Um…? I don’t know sign language,” you say, and he immediately drops his hands. So he can hear you, at least. ”Who are you?”

He thinks for a moment and squats, using his fingers to draw in the dirt. I AM KURLOZ, he writes. He looks up at you. The name doesn’t mean anything to you. You’ve never heard of anyone named Kurloz. But now that you’re sure he’s not affiliated with Gamzee, you feel better and you squat down next to him.

"Hi, Kurloz. I’m Nepeta. Nice to meet you!" you say. "Sorry for getting all worked up. You just remind me of…someone I knew once."

He nods rapidly and writes YOU REMIND ME OF SOMEONE AS WELL. A WICKED KITTYBITCH WHO ONCE I CALLED MY MATESPRIT.

You blink. You remind him of an old matesprit? How romantic! But…why ‘once’? Is it because he’s dead? ”Was she your matesprit when you were alive, then?” you ask.

YES, he writes. WE KICKED THE RIGHTEOUS SHIT AS TWO PIOUS MOTHERFUCKERS WITH SOULS WHAT MADE HARMONIOUS MOTHERFUCKING MUSIC TOGETHER. BUT WE ARE NO MORE.

"Is she still alive, then?" you ask, shifting into a more comfortable position. It sounds like a juicy story, full of pity, drama and intrigue. Your favorite kind.

NO, he writes. SHE EXPIRED AT THE SAME TIME AS I DID.

"So why don’t you go find her? I’m sure she’s looking for you!"

OUR MATESPRITSHIP IS BEYOND SALVATION. He pauses, and you see his eyes flicker up to yours. You sense some need beneath his guarded expression. He sighs. I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR SOME UNFORGIVABLE MOTHERFUCKING SINS. PLAGUED BY THE UNHOLY NIGHTMARES OF MY KIND, I ROBBED MY FLUSHED OF HER HEARDUCT’S POWER TO HEAR.

"Oh no!" Nepeta said, feeling legitimately sorry for her creepy new friend.

OH YES, he replied. AND MY RIGHTFUL PUNISHMENT IS THE IMPRISONMENT OF MY VOICE BY MY OWN MOTHERFUCKING WILL.

You glance at the stitching on his mouth. That makes sense. ”That’s a tragic story,” you tell him.

He nods. AND YOU, MY WICKED SISTER, WHO DO I RESEMBLE TO MAKE YOUR FACE SO WAN?

You shift, suddenly uncomfortable. ”Well…to be honest, the guy who killed me.” You begin to doodle in the dirt with your own finger, drawing swirls around his words. He draws a single question mark in the dust. You sigh. ”I thought he was a friend of mine, but then…he killed my moirail and then me. I don’t even know why! He always seemed so…harmless.”

Kurloz nods his head and writes, BELOW THE SURFACE THE RAGE RUNS DEEP FOR SOME.

You can’t argue with him. Gamzee is the bard of rage, so maybe it’s not so surprising after all. You sigh again and draw a small cat pouncing on one of his words. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Kurloz smile and shift into a sitting position, and he draws his own figure in the sand.


	7. Tavros/Cronus, "I hate your music"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "we’re strangers but i absolutely hate your music taste and i feel the need to tell you this on a crowded subway au for Cronus and Tavros"

You can’t really help looking over his shoulder.  He’s in a wheelchair and his phone is just  _right there_ in his lap, flashing up at your face, begging to be scanned.  You get a gander at his whole music collection as he scrolls through his library.  You don’t know what he’s smiling about, because it makes you want to  _cry_.  You watch him bob his head, grinning like a real piece of work, and you just can’t help it.  This guy needs guidance.  He  _needs_  it.  Honestly, he’s lucky you came into his life to give him a head’s up.

"Hey, kid," you say as you pop out one of his earphones.  He startles a little bit and looks up at you with confusion.  This chump is way too easy to read.  You point down at his phone and say, "If you need help with this, I’m your man."

He looks down at his phone and back up at you, still confused.  But he doesn’t look irritated or pissed off, which is always a good start to a conversation for you.  You smile as sweetly as you can.  ”What…do you mean?” he asks.

"Your music, champ," you say.  "You can’t possible  _enjoy_  that crap.”

His face falls.  Not in an angry way, which is good news for you, but bewildered and uncertain.  He looks down at his phone again and scrolls through his library, his brow still furrowed.  ”What’s wrong with it?” he asks, as though you’re talking about the names of the songs and not the actual music itself.

"Oh, you poor thing," you purr, and you drop your hand on his shoulder as consolation.  He is  _so_  lucky to have met you.  ”Let me introduce you to some _good_  music.  You’ll thank me, trust me.”

"Uh, actually, I really enjoy what I’m listening to right now," he says.  Oops, there it is…the irritation.  Nobody appreciates you.  But it’s still an uncertain kind of irritation, like he hasn’t quite made up his mind to write you off yet, so you’re going to press on.

"I’m sure you do!" you say with your best disarming smile.  "But honestly, there’s better stuff.  Think about it this way, champ: taste in music is like taste in, let’s say,  _wine_.  You need to develop it over time, go to wineries, learn the nuances, and  _then_  you’ll understand what’s good and what’s not.  You’re still on the cheap swill you buy from the pharmacy in terms of musical tastes, if you catch my drift.  Let me take you to a winery or two, and you’ll see what I mean.”

You can tell from the look on his face that he’s not following.  Probably because, given the general state of his clothes, he’s never been to a winery.  How stupid of you!  You should’ve used a less refined metaphor.  He examines your face with a lifted eyebrow as you try to come up with a more accessible metaphor for someone in his…demographic.  Before you’re done thinking, though, he says something that surprises you.  ”I guess I’m open to learning about new things.”

You’re floored.  ”Really?” you say.

"Yeah, since I like music, and I could stand to hear more music, even though I like what I already listen to."

Holy mother of god, does this mean what you think it means?  ”So,” you say, as nonchalant as possible, “you wanna give me your number, and we can check out our options?”

He shrugs.  ”Sure.”  You pass your phone to him so quickly you almost drop it on him.  He seems surprised, but he types his number in nonetheless.  The train comes to a stop as he hands it back to you, and he points to the exit.  ”This is my stop, so…”

"Don’t worry, champ.  I’ll call you," you say, because hot  _DAMN_  you actually managed to get somebody’s number for once.   _Nice_.


	8. Jade/Vriska, "I just committed a crime"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "i just committed a crime and i need to use you as a hostage i am so sorry au" for Jade/Vriska

You have  _fucked up_.  Where’s your getaway car?  What’s with all the sirens?  Your avenues for escape are closing fast, and you’ve got a bag full of money that’ll be awfully hard to explain away in court.

"Shit," you hiss.  No time to think.  Your luck’s running out and you gotta act  _fast_.

You grab the girl nearest to you and hold the gun to her head.  ”Nobody move!” you shout.  The girl lets out a small ‘meep!’ but she doesn’t start to cry or anything ridiculous.  Her hair smells good.  Like plants.  Flowers.  Hostages aren’t really your style, and holding a gun to some random girl’s head isn’t your best moment.  But them’s the breaks.

"Follow my instructions, and no funny business," you whisper into her ear as you back out of the room.  Everyone watches you go, terror plastered across their faces.  It’s so surreal, like you’re watching a movie of people freaking out about something that just happens to be you.  Kind of exhilarating, actually.  It makes you feel powerful, and you think you like it a little too much.

Outside, you make your hostage run with you.  The police are coming, and you need to book it until you’re in the clear.  You twist through alleys, weave through apartment complexes, follow twists and turns that you know like the back of your hand until the sirens fade into the distance.  And the pretty girl you stole keeps up.  She’s not even breaking a sweat.  You’re kind of impressed!

"Okay, here’s the deal," you say when you finally feel safe enough to slow down.  You’re on your own turf, and you haven’t seen anyone in a while.  Your gun’s still ready to fire, just in case she freaks out and tries something funny.  But to your surprise…she’s smiling?  "I’ll let you go, but if you—"

She moves quicker than you expect.  Your finger breaks in the gun’s trigger guard as she disarms you, swift and practiced, and she knocks your feet out from under you.  You fall flat on your back.  You have never in your life felt more confused.  You look up into the barrel of your own gun, and your hostage—or ex-hostage—is grinning down at you.  Not malicious or triumphant, but…exhilarated?

"That was kinda fun!" she says with a light laugh.  What the  _fuck_?

"Who the hell do you think you are?" you ask.  You hope you look fierce, because you’re feeling a lot of things other than fierce.  Impressed, for one.  Kind of aroused, despite the pain in your broken finger.  Generally bewildered.

"If you let me keep your gun, I’ll let you keep the money," she says.  What kind of deal is  _that_?

"Done," you say.

"Thanks!" she says, like you just did her a favor.  She swings the pistol around by the trigger guard with this dorky smirk, and you can tell she knows how to handle a firearm.  You cautiously push yourself to your feet.

"If that’s all, I’m gonna scram," you say.  "You’re…?"

"Jade Harley," she says, extending her hand like you’re actually stupid enough to shake it with the finger  _she_ broke.  You nod and smirk instead.

"Jade, huh?  I’ll be back for that gun someday."

She laughs.  ”Good luck trying to get it back!”

If only she knew that luck is your  _thing_.


	9. Karkat/Nepeta, cat lady next door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "you’re the crazy cat person next door and your cats keep on wandering into my yard au" with Nepeta and Karkat

Another cat.  How many cats has it been this week?  Five?  Ten?   _Fucking FIFTY?_   You don’t know how many cats your neighbor owns, but this is just ridiculous.  Nobody can own this many cats.  It’s just not physically possible for this many cats to occupy a space as narrow as your neighbor’s home and  _apparently_  your fucking yard, which seems to be fair game for felines.

You exhale quickly through your nose and stomp out your front door.  You’ve had enough.  Someone needs to lay down the law or write up some kind of treaty to negotiate the comings and goings of these fluffy intruders before your lawn becomes a gigantic litter box.  You bang on the door and wait, tapping your foot with impatience.

When the door opens, you have to orient your gaze down, which is a foreign feeling for you.  You’re usually the shorter one.  The girl inside greets you with a immediate and prominent blush that colors her cheeks a shade of red you only ever see when you’re raging.  You pause, because nobody reacts to you that way.  Nobody you know, anyway.  You clear your throat, but to your disappointment, a good amount of your venom seems to have disappeared.

"Your cats keep jumping the fence into my yard," you say, "and I’d rather they not shit all over the place if there’s any possible way to prevent it.  The land value in this godforsaken dump of a neighborhood is low enough as it is."

She opens her mouth and closes it.  You’re startled when she moves aside in one jerky motion, inviting you in with a stiff gesture.  ”If you have a purroblem, I’d like it if you came inside so we can come up with a solution.”

Great.  Social obligations.  You sigh and trudge through the door.  And holy  _SHIT_  are there a lot of fucking cats in here.  How?  How does one person have all these goddamn cats?   _How_?

But it doesn’t smell terrible, at least.  You’d think it would, but it’s surprisingly clean.  The whole house is a cat playground, with little catwalks weaving over your head from one wall to another, spiral cat ramps, scratching posts, kitty doors…you’ve never imagined any environment this cat-friendly in your life.  And the cats seem to love it.  They’re happy and healthy, from what you can tell.  But it’s not like you know that much about cats.

She leads you to a table in the kitchen and asks you to sit down while she makes tea.  ”I don’t need any tea,” you say as soon as she offers.  The corner of her lips quirks up into an amused smile, as though you just said some sort of in-joke.

"You sure do!" she says, and she goes to make tea.  What the fuck.  When you say you don’t want tea, you don’t want tea.  You glance around as she busies herself with the tea kettle (cat-themed…fucking typical).  She has  _literal jars_  of loose leaf tea.  As the water boils, she examines each, muttering to herself while she decides which kind of tea to use.  She’s…narrating her actions?  What’s she doing?  Her face tells you she’s have a hell of a lot of fun, and you can’t figure out why.

You jump and swear when the kettle whistles, and she darts to it, almost feline herself in the deftness of her movements.  You hear her suppress a giggle as the whistling stops and she pours the water into a ceramic teapot (cat-themed).  She finally joins you at the table with two tea cups and the teapot.

Neither of you say anything as she sets you up with a cup.  She watches you with a keen interest that nearly has you blushing as well.  What is even going on?  You murmur some bullshit down at your cup to take the edge off, something appropriately colorful, and you notice her face glow with amusement out of the corner of your eye.  ”What kind of tea is this?” you finally ask.

"…Catnip," she says.  You almost splash the water into your eyeballs.

"Where the everloving fuck do you find all this cat shit?" you ask, and she laughs.  

"I like cats!" she says, and she’s not even embarrassed.  She thinks you’re funny.  It’s like she already knows you’re going to blow the fuck up at her and doesn’t even care.  What the hell, does she watch you from her window with a pair of binoculars?  And then you remember that you were so loud when your lawnmower broke down that your other neighbor called the cops, and you think maybe there’s a reason she knows what to expect.

You’re about to respond when a cat jumps onto your lap and lays its fat fucking ass down like it’s got as much right to the surface of your legs as it does to the rest of the open platforms in this cat paradise.  You can’t even deal with it.  Nepeta watches you for your reaction as you bite down a rant and hold your breath until your annoyance comes down.  You huff through your nose.  Her face breaks into a smile.

"That’s Fluffster McSnugglebutt," she says.  Of course it is.  After a second, during which you resign yourself to your fate, you drop your hand on the cat’s head.  It purrs while you scratch behind its ears.  Nepeta takes the opportunity to introduce you to her other primary interest: roleplaying.


	10. Sollux/Aradia, in airport and afraid of thunder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'We're strangers stuck on an airport because of a storm and I'm afraid of thunder au', with either Sollux/Aradia

How the hell does it make sense for a psiionic to be afraid of thunder?  Someone needs to tell you how and why you live in a reality in which that sort of bullshit makes sense.  Maybe if you stop everyone in this terminal, somebody will have the answer to that little enigma.  No, wait, they won’t, because it’s  _fucking stupid_.

You pace.  You know you need to stop, but fuck if your asshole brain ever listens to you about anything.  Bright light illuminates everything in the terminal for a split second, followed by a sharp crack of thunder.  You jump and cringe.  The urge to skitter away and hide somewhere is almost so overpowering that your disgust with yourself can’t keep it in check, but you manage somehow.  Your heart is doing something ridiculous in your chest.  Shit, if you have a panic attack in the middle of this fucking spaceport, you’ll hate yourself forever.  Not that you don’t already hate yourself.  You’ll just hate yourself more.

"Hey…are you all right?"

Shit, someone’s noticed.  Are you that obvious?  Who are you kidding, of _course_  you’re that obvious.  You suck in a huge breath through your teeth and turn to the unwanted interloper.  ” _Yes_ , I am fucking dand—”

You stop.  Another flash of lightning illuminates the woman’s face, shining for a nanosecond in her scarlet pupils.  A lowblood like you.  She doesn’t seem at all concerned about the peal of thunder that follows the light.  Her smile widens as you shudder.

"Come sit with me," she says.  Her face looks as though she could stare into the eyes of death without batting an eye.  Your pounding heart quivers.

"No, fuck off," you say.  Why did you say that?  You don’t know.  Asshole brain.  You’re freaking out, and it looks like you’re going to take it out on someone else.  Nice.  You are so great.

She reaches out and grabs your bony wrist.  Her skin is warm, warmer than yours or anyone else you’ve touched.  Not that you’ve touched many people.  It feels nice and inviting, and you don’t jerk away.  ”There’s nothing to be scared of,” she says as she leads you to her baggage.  Old shit, beat up duffle-bags and a vintage suitcase.

"No shit," you mumble, but you let her sit you down next to her.  She reaches into one of her bags and extracts a garment.  A skirt?  A shirt?  Hell if you know.

"Here, let’s try this," she says, and with that grin still on her face, she wraps the damn thing around your head.  Really.  No wonder she’s smiling.  You should’ve known she’d take the opportunity to make a complete ass out of you.  You’re surprised someone else didn’t beat her to it.

To your surprise, though, she pulls your clothed head to her and wraps her arms around you.  She’s covering your ears.  It’s dark.  The sound of thunder is distant, like waves hitting a beach miles and miles away.  This…isn’t bad.  This is okay.  You relax, and her hand strokes up and down your back.  This is…waaaaaay more familiar than you’ve been with anyone, let alone a complete stranger, but…you think maybe it’s fine.  For now.


	11. Tavros/Dirk, mute rapping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ooh please do mute tavros get's pulled on stage to sing with lead singer dirk!

The audience is wild and you are riding the waves of your euphoria like you do every concert.  You are a lyrical master, a god of ill beats and sick rhymes, and you are bringing this establishment down on all the howling teens drooling over your gyrating hips.  You can almost feel their appreciation, and it is  _hot_.  Hot like you’re hot.  You’re hotter because of the heat of your fans, both literally and figuratively.  You don’t even know what you’re talking about anymore.

Your eyes scan the crowd, skipping over shrieking women and hooting dudes, and a pair of chocolate peepers catch yours.  There’s a cute one at every concert, to be sure.  They all begin to melt together into a sort of cute fan archetype, until they’re less person and more a humanoid element of the adrenaline dream engulfing you during the music high.  This one has a fly as hell mohawk, messed up with sweat and movement, and a gorgeous grin that sends signals down your torso to your groin.  The way his eyes glitter, you know he’s about the art.  You can spot a fellow wordsmith when you see one.  Working on instinct, you reach for him and pull him on stage.

You’re still spitting lines like a machine gun, and his awe is intoxicating.  You lean against him, expecting him to share the mic with you like they all do.  A look passes across his face, and for a second, your brain stutters.  Shit.  Maybe he’s got stage fright.  It does happen.  You keep going, encouraging him to move with you so he’s not feeling too awkward.  Then, in a twist you couldn’t expect, he lifts his hands and begins to sign.

You take a step back, appraising him with open appreciation.  He’s signing your words as you go.  His hands are flying like crazy across his face, his shoulders, his torso—hell, you don’t even know what’s going on, but it’s fluid and real as fuck.  He sees you eyeing him like he’s the best thing you’ve seen in months—and, to be honest, he probably is—and he’s getting into it.  It’s like a dance, in a way, but just as music as whatever you’re doing.  Holy shit, this is literally the best concert ever.

You finish the number, and he’s grinning again.  You think you are, too.  The crowd is roaring for him, and you’re letting him upstage you because he fucking deserves it.  God, he’s pleased with himself and sheepish with all the attention and all sorts of unbelievable.  When you go to help him off the stage, you ask him if he might wanna meet you backstage later.  His eyes light up, and he nods.  Your night has been made.


	12. Dave/Terezi, tree climbing contest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: dave/terezi 'tree climbing contest but we both got stuck up on the top branches'

Troll forests are weird as fuck.  The trunks are periwinkle, the canopy is an obnoxious shade of pink that has no right taking up  _that much_  of your vision, and, what the fuck, are those stuffed animals hanging from those branches?  Who the fuck—?  Before you can drop a string of comments, your traveling companion takes a huge sniff and releases a delighted sigh, and you realize in a flash whose memory you’re in.  You should’ve known, seeing as there’s only one person around aside from you and it sure as hell ain’t  _your_  memory _._

"Finally, a bubble that does suck!" Terezi says.  

"What about that sweet set up we just left?" you ask.  You mean your house, which was the main feature of the dream bubble you just left.  It wasn’t quite right, but it never is when you’re in the middle of a nap.  You bet Terezi’s memory’s fuzzy in ways you can’t pinpoint, but she doesn’t seem to care.  She starts towards the tree with the stuffed animal piñatas, and you follow.

"For a cool kid, your hive sucks," Terezi said.  "Let me show you something worth bragging about!"

"No way," you say.  You look up at the mass of buildings in the tree.  "This is your place?  What business does a blind girl got living five hundred feet off the ground?  There’s gotta be safety codes on that shit."

"Pff, what’s being blind got to do with it?  I’m an expert tree dweller."

"Expert, huh?  How’s your walking stick work when you’re shimming up a massive troll redwood?"

"It works better than your city fingers do."

"Psh, trees ain’t nothing compared to the sort of sick urban obstacles I’ve had to navigate."

"You wanna test that, smartass?"

You look up at the tree.  ”What, you mean you actually want me to shimmy my way up that enormous fucking trunk?”

"No, stupid!" Terezi says, prodding you with her cane.  "I have a platform for to get up to my hive.  I’m not that impractical.  But once we’re up there, how about a little _friendly competition_?”

She grins, showing off all her pointed teeth.  You can’t really say no to that, can you?  It’s hardly a competition at all, given your strict training and Terezi’s…Terezi-ness.  You know she supposedly has all these hot moves as part of the troll group that won the game, but you have yet to see any of that in action.  Hell, as short and lean as she is, you can’t imagine she packs that much of a punch, but you’re not gonna say that to her.  If she wants a climbing contest, you’re up for it.  ”Let’s go, then.  Take me up to your lofty tower and we’ll get this tree party started.”

She leads you to the platform that lifts you up to her “hive,” which looks just like someplace you’d expect her to live.  Wacky, irregular, and, from what you can see through the windows, colorful enough to shock your senses, even through your shades.  She doesn’t take you inside, though, and before you can prepare yourself, she yells, “START!”  She’s off propelling herself to a nearby branch like some sort of spindly fuckin’ spider monkey before you can drop a surprised “Shit!”

What the actual fuck, she’s fast and way more reckless than you were prepared to deal with.  You’re fast, too, without a doubt, but she does some crazy contortionist shit with her spine to reach places in ways that makes you raise an eyebrow.  These is a  _legit fucking match,_  and you have to up your game to keep her from handing your ass to you.  You’re breaking a sweat.  Your hands aren’t used to the feel of rough wood, and you’re starting to get a little sore.  What the hell.

You break the canopy just seconds after she does.  She’s laughing at you with a superior sort of cackle, but you can hear the breathlessness in her voice.  She’s got bright pink leaves in her hair.  Keeping your face blank, you reach over and pick out the foliage.  ”You got me,” you say.  Nobody can call Dave Strider a sore loser.  You’re not really that bummed about it anyway.

"No one is surprised," she says, flashing those sharp teeth.  She ruffles your hair, and to your surprise, a couple leaves flutter down from your head.  You bet nature sprite pastel goth would be a good look for you.

"Whatever.  How about we stop being stupid and go back down to your place."

She looks at you a minute with a look that confuses you.  What, do you have something on your face?  ”I don’t know how to get down,” she says.

Your face falls just a bit.  ”Wait, but I thought you did this all the time.”

"No, I’ve never climbed this high."

"You—but you were going fuckin’ crazy on those branches like this was your regular workout routine."

"Nope, never done it."

Unbe-fucking-lievable.  ”So what do we do?”

"Well…" she says.  She looks up at the sky.  It’s a starry night, and Alternia’s two weird as shit colorful moons are at different places on the shimmering dome.  Seriously, though, don’t moons glow because they’re reflecting the light of the sun?  How are two moon glowing two completely different colors?  Whatever.  "Let’s just stay up here until we wake up," Terezi finally says.

"You just want to chill up here?" you ask.

She shrugs.  ”We fell asleep cuddling, so we can fall awake cuddling.”

You think about it and shrug too.  It’s not like her logic is flawed.  You settle in, wrapping your arm around her, and talk about the Alternian sky.

 


	13. Tavros&Aradia&Sollux, summoning demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Ok, just adjust these candles, hold the flashlight in front of your face and chant her name three times!"

The glow of the candles distorted Aradia’s smile into something almost frightening, and Tavros glanced at Sollux for reassurance.  He kept the expression on his face neutral, except for an almost imperceptible tightening of his lips.  His colored lenses reflected the candle’s flames as Tavros reached over to adjust them the way Aradia instructed.  Aradia handed him the flashlight.

"Uh…maybe Sollux should go first."

"No way!  I thought you were going to brave for once,  _Rufio_.”

"No, that’s—Rufio is the name of my imaginary self-confidence, who isn’t actually real, so…"

"It’s fine, Tavros!" Aradia interrupted.  "We’re here with you, so you can feel safe.  It’s all in good fun, right?"

Tavros looked at Aradia, who flashed him a warm smile, and he sighed.  ”Okay…” he said, pointing the flashlight at his face.  ”Um…Handmaid, Handmaid…Handmaid…”

The candles went out.  Tavros let out a small gasp, and Sollux released a noise that he would later deny he ever made, but none of them dared to move.  The only light came from the flashlight, which was still pointed at Tavros’s terrified face.  ”Uh…Aradia…” he said, his voice so thin it was almost inaudible.

Aradia didn’t answer, and neither did Sollux.  They were both staring wide-eyed at something standing behind Tavros.  Forgetting to breathe, he slowly turned around.  The flashlight flickered out.


End file.
